


The Deeds of War

by Dryad



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Aftermath of Violence, Gen, Giving more characters would spoil it, Non-Graphic Violence, Sorry Not Sorry, unity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-05-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:14:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24364135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dryad/pseuds/Dryad
Summary: "Of Pallas Athena, guardian of the city, I begin to sing. Dread is she, and with Ares she loves the deeds of war, the sack of cities and the shouting and the battle. It is she who saves the people as they go to war and come back. Hail, goddess, and give us good fortune and happiness!"~ Homeric Hymn #11
Comments: 4
Kudos: 17
Collections: Holmestice Exchange - Summer 2020





	The Deeds of War

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cam_elot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cam_elot/gifts).



John didn't know why they had been transferred to _Minerva_ , all Sherlock had said was that they might be there some time. 

There was an empty seat next to Sherlock. 

An empty seat across from him, too.

The entire table was, in fact, unburdened apart from Sherlock, and considering how busy the mess was, well. An unsurprising statement of Sherlock's popularity.

The man himself was clearly working up to a strop; John gathered his tray and drink and hastened to that corner of the mess. 

"Took you long enough, I'm bored, John," Sherlock said in a rush, stabbing at a gravy covered lump with his fork at the same time. "These people are dull."

"Aye," John replied, glancing at nearby tables to see if anyone had heard. 

Sidelong sneers said yes, yes they had heard. 

The meal was meat in a sweet gravy, mashed orange root vegetable, stewed greens, spicy pickled cabbage, white rolls, a pat of spread to put on the rolls. Water and a small bottle of 'juice' to accompany his meal, plus a chit for coffee later on. What passed for coffee, anyway. John had become used to Sherlock's seemingly never ending supply of real coffee, even though it had only been three weeks since they had met. Worse yet, in such short a time he had forgotten what it was like to live in the officer's berth. Granted, he only had three other roommates and they each had their own bunk, so there was that in his favour. Why, they even had a common toilet on this deck, with a door for privacy! _Minerva_ was a small ship; he could have been placed in the ordinary berthing along with the regular sailors.

"Are you even paying attention?"

John started with a nod. "Yes, of course," he said belatedly. And that was another thing. Sherlock wasn't held in quite the same esteem here on _Minerva_ that he had been on _Venom_. 

They had been put in their place as soon as they stepped aboard. Although John had followed Sherlock to his quarters, it was instantly clear that John would not be staying with him, not unless he slept in the corridor, for the room only had a pull down rack above the desk and pull out chair, and a tiny closet flush with the opposite wall. A bag took up half the floor - Sherlock's clothing. 

Sherlock turned to John and said, "You'll have to stay in the officer's berth, there's no room for you here."

And that was that. Officers berth for officers of John's class were another another deck altogether, which didn't make him happy. It would take minutes to get to Sherlock in an emergency, and John well knew that time was of the essence when it came to saving lives. With any luck, the only time he would leave Sherlock's side was when he went to bed.

Which was...they would just have to see. 

John was halfway through his meal when Sherlock spoke again, sotto voce.

"What do we think?"

John concentrated on his meal, speaking equally softly. " _Minerva_ 's an unhappy ship. Can't put my finger on why, but tempers are flaring. Ship's club is overburdened and staff is suffering as a result. Been here less than two days and I'm already up to my ears in patients. Lower deck fights, lots of gossip," He shook his head. "I'm getting the distinct feeling that lack of leadership is to blame."

Sherlock picked up his cup and swirled around the remaining liquid. 

John thought he caught of a musty whiff of tea and wrinkled his nose. "Is that anywhere near fresh?"

"Might have been close to a picture of tea, once," was Sherlock's droll reply. He leaned forward onto his elbows, one hand covering his mouth. "There's something deeply wrong on this ship, I agree. How do you propose we find out why?"

"You're asking me?"

"I don't have my resources here, John, and you know more about these close quarters than I."

The flattery really would get him everywhere. If that was all he ever said. John had a little chuckle to himself, then considered the question more seriously. He would have to come to it from a doctorly angle.No point in trying to deny what he was going to do. "I'll stick below decks, report to you when I can."

Sherlock looked askance at him. "Are you sure that's wise? You're new - "

"Exactly," said John. "I'm an unknown quantity. I've not been approached - yet. Even the staff from the club are being far more cautious than normal," A second later he added, with no little emphasis, "Don't go there, Sherlock."

"The club?"

John nodded. "It's not - the people there - Dr. Schroeder was shit," he said, putting down his knife even though he far rather throw it onto the table. "I've only just started, but inventory seems low, even for a ship this size. Dr. Milagros wasn't even trying. How either of them got certified is beyond me. I've got two nurses, one of whom is just a dogsbody without any training apart from what the other one's told him. It's not right."

"Hmm, I see."

John shoved the last of the greens into his mouth and forced himself to chew well. He didn't know what they were or how they had been cooked, but there was a bitter, almost medicinal aftertaste that he didn't care for. He had to keep healthy; the ship had no vitamin pills or liquids at all. Gods forbid they should come to any action. "What about you?"

Sherlock smiled slightly and stood. "Good afternoon, Chaplain."

With only a moment's hesitation, John got to his feet, too. He hadn't noticed the Chaplain approaching, engrossed as he was with the greens and thoughts of keeping Sherlock out of harm's way. 

"Mr. Holmes, I've heard a lot about you," said the Chaplain, a man only slightly taller than John, with dark hair and pale skin. His robe was navy blue, the bursting sun pinned to his jacket sparkling gold even in the dull overhead light of the mess. " thought you would come see me first, being a person of some stature and new to the ship."

"Reputation is always overrated," said Sherlock, smiling his false little smile that never failed to give John a secret thrill, mostly because it meant either snark or a case. "My companion, Captain Watson."

The Chaplain turned his attention to John, his eyes very bright, his teeth showing as he smiled. "You can't have two captains on one ship, whatever am I to call you?"

Oh, John didn't like him. Maybe no one else would believe him, but the Chaplain was a nasty piece of work, John just knew it. "Dr. Watson will do."

"Ah, a doctor, how clever. We can always use doctors aboard the _Minerva_."

"Indeed."

John was aware of the interest they were getting from those seated at the other tables, and cleared his throat. "No offense, but I'll be doing my best not to see you at the clinic too often."

The Chaplain threw his head back and laughed. "Oh, I'm sure I will. Doctors always need help with matters spiritual, no? We'll get along fine, just fine. Now, if you'll excuse me, I must away to the temple," he leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially. "Men always need guidance, don't you think?"

He inclined his head to each of them, John automatically doing so back, and then the Chaplain was walking away without another word.

Alright then. "That was odd," said John, sitting down again.

"Yes..."

"What?"

"I have to do a thing," said Sherlock, edging around the table. "I'll contact you later."

Everyone else watching Sherlock sweep out of the mess too, shooting glances to see if John was still there. He shook his head and turned his attention back to his food. Just because he wasn't particularly interested in the rest of it didn't mean he wasn't hungry, and one thing a soldier learned was never to leave food on the plate. 

~*~

The sailor had been hanging around for the better part of an hour, picking at his nails, shuffling his feet every time a new patient sat down in the waiting room. John's 'nurses' were merely sailors who at some point had been deemed 'good enough' for the role, by which John suspected that meant 'didn't fuck up on the regular'. 

His office opened directly on to the waiting room and by the time the sailor was ready to come in, John was ready to see the backside of him.

It had not been a good morning. In the three weeks he had been assigned to Sherlock, John had become used to a life of luxury. On _Venom_ had his own room (a disused closet wide enough for a pull down rack), access to fresh food (fruit!), plus real tea and coffee ground from whole beans instead of the swill dispensed in the mess. Now he was berthed in a cabin with three other officers, officers who weren't fond of the newcomer. They had been looking forward to their dead roommate's bunk being used as a couch - amongst other things.

He and Sherlock has only been aboard for less than two days and already he hated _Minerva_ and most everyone aboard her. Which was a terrible thing to say, but there it was. He was not the kind of man to change his mind once it was settled on something, which didn't bode well for the immediate future. Worse yet, it was nothing he could put his finger on, no overriding thing that made the ship so awful apart from the pall in the air and the scent of over-worked scrubbers.

"Next!" called John, taking a moment to review the protocols for exercise. Ah, there was no use for it, he would have to set aside some time to look at them properly. On the face of it they seemed normal, but there was something about the schedule that was off.

He pasted a smile on his face as the sailor entered the room, noting that the sailor's chair in the waiting room was instantly filled. Had Dr. Schroeder never actually done an open clinic? Why did he have so many patients today? 

"What can I help you with today, Mister...?" And now he was utterly failing to look up his client's medical history, for god's sakes.

"Dunphy, sir. Cosmin Dunphy, first rating."

The chart didn't seem out of the ordinary - John looked at Dunphy with raised eyebrows. Dunphy was on the tall and skinny side, but nervous, as John had noted before. Nervous as a regular state, or just from being here? 

"Sir, I hear you're from _Venom_?"

"Aye, that's right."

"But you're Army, not Navy?"

Okay. John leaned back and laced his fingers over his lap. This didn't sound medical, at least not something he would treat with a pill or a syringe. "That's correct, I was seconded to _Venom_ from _Sir Richard Sharpe_."

"Oh, the _Sharpe_! Did you see action on Sphynx, sir?"

"Aye, I did."

"Well done, sir, well done."

Enough of this. "What can I help you with today, Mr. Dunphy?"

"Sir, sir, do you know about the Oracle?" Dunphy asked eagerly, sitting forward on the edge of the chair. "Have you met him?"

Ah. "I have, I have. Did you want me to pass a message along to him? Because it's probably easier and faster to mail him directly. I have it on good authority he goes through his letters on a daily basis."

Dunphy shook his head strenuously. "Oh no, no I couldn't do that, sir. I can't send any mail, that wouldn't be good".

"No?" John said mildly. "I'm not a courier."

Dunphy deflated a little bit. He bit one of his nails, nodded to himself, as if he had come to a decision. "Well...can't say I didn't give it my best shot..."

He stood up. "Thank you, sir. I'd best be on my way."

"Sit down!" barked John, regretting his tone an instant later when Dunphy dropped back into the chair. Reining in his temper, because the mess he was dealing with wasn't Dunphy's fault, he said, "Tell me what the problem is, let's start from there."

"Well, see. Sir, it's not that I should be telling this, I thought I could tell the Oracle and he'd fix it, no one would have to know about me knowing it, if y'know what I mean."

John did. He made an encouraging 'go on' motion. When Dunphy didn't speak, he said, "Nothing you say here will go beyond these walls apart from what you want me to tell the Oracle."

Dunphy didn't look relieved, but a weight did seem to lift from him. "I work in Stores, mostly, handling this and that. Sometimes I'm put on Cargo when we're shorthanded, like when we got goods from Calliope, y'know? Now I'm used to taking in booty and the like, it all has to be inventoried, but I saw a discrepancy and went down to Cargo to talk to the Cargo Master, but he's not there, it's one of his underlings, Sepp. Now Sepp's new on board, I don't know him, but I don't like him."

John wanted a drink and his dinner, in that order. Dunphy was clearly a story teller and would hopefully come to the conclusion of his story sooner rather than later.

"So I started asking him abo-"

John jumped in his seat a moment after Dunphy, surprised by the door suddenly opening. Before he had a chance to shout at the nurse over the intrusion, Sherlock stepped into the office, all dramatic in his duty blacks, a true absence of light that drew the eye in. God, John really hoped some of the mystery would rub off on himself. Sherlock glanced at John, saw Dunphy and looked at him with narrowed eyes.

"Ah, yes," he drawled, clasping his hands behind his back. The admit on the door turned from green to red and really, John didn't know how the hell Sherlock had done that when he hadn't even reached for the lock. "Do go on."

Mouth open, Dunphy glanced between john and Sherlock. "I..."

"It's fine," said John. "Mr. Holmes has an even greater 'in' with the Oracle than I do."

Sherlock raised a smirking eyebrow, and John had to turn away before he grinned. Idiot.

"Well..." said Dunphy.

Sherlock perched a hip on the edge of John's desk and folded his arms. "Dr. Watson is correct, I can relay any and all information to the Oracle directly. We're very close."

"Oh! That's good then, because what I have to say means my life if it gets out," Dunphy sat down again. "So like I said I work in Stores, but had to go down to Cargo to check on inventory coming in because the Master couldn't be found. Now there are crates and crates of stuff from all over, because we've just seen action off System 59. It's a mess, nothing's organized, I mean that's not abnormal at the start, but this far away from the battle we should know what's what and where it is. Anyways, I starts going through the manifest and checking off the crates one by one, but in one corner of the hold there are a whole bunch that aren't even _on_ the manifest.  
Crates come in all sizes, from small to large to container sized, and I mis-spoke, this is actually a small container, not a crate. Anyways, I open it up and BAM, I got faces staring back at me."

Dunphy nodded, obviously satisfied by their expressions. "Yeah, that's right, faces. Now it's not uncommon for prisoners to be shipped onto _Minerva,_ , but we know about it in advance and they're only here for a little bit while they go through processing, then we drop them off at one of the prison ships like _Iron Forge_ or one of the other old battle ladies like _Fair Winds_ or _Valley Breeze_ , no big deal. Like I said, this crate wasn't on the manifest. I had questions, but before I go the chance to ask any of 'em, the Master comes back, hustling me outta there and accusing me of wanting his job and all."

Dunphy stopped and looked at them, pleased with himself.

John didn't get it.

Sherlock, however - "How many?"

"They weren't packed in there, but they skewed young, real young, y'feel me?"

And then John did get it. "Ah..."

"I kept my peace, if you know what I mean," said Dunphy. "Kept my mouth shut. The Master kept lookin' at me, but he didn't have to say anything, y'know?"

"Where are they now?" asked Sherlock.

"I don't know. I try not to even go in there if I don't have to."

A silence fell in which John tried to think of something to say. "Why do you want the Oracle to investigate?"

"He knows everything, doesn't he? I don't want any more of the foul business, it's not right. And I got a family on Pollux to feed."

"Yes, thank you," said Sherlock, getting to his feet. "You may go."

"You'll tell the Oracle?"

"Of course, now go, get out."

"All right, all right," said Dunphy, shooting John a 'can you believe this guy?' look. John raised his eyebrows in commiseration. Dunphy didn't know the half of it.

As soon as the door slid shut, Sherlock whirled to face John. He wasn't wearing his greatcoat and the effect was somewhat diminished. Sherlock was Sherlock, however, a man who could make stirring sugar into coffee dramatic.

"This is why we were sent her, John! I thought I would have to find out more, I never expected anyone to come to you with the information we needed - "

Was that a backhanded complement?

" - but never mind that. We need to find out where they're being held. Ask your patients -"

"Whoa, whoa," said John, holding up one hand. "I'll keep my ears to the ground, but I'm new here and any untoward questions will only arouse suspicion. I'm still feeling my way around - "

Sherlock frowned. "Get yourself invited to a game, lose some money, you're good at that, and - "

John half rose out of his chair, raging and hurt at the same time. It was a low blow, a very low blow. "Now wait just a damned minute - "

Sherlock waved one hand at him. "Don't take it to heart, John, it's just a fact that you're a terrible gambler."

The shame of it was that he couldn't argue with Sherlock; he was a terrible gambler. "Get on with it," he grumbled, feeling like a fool. Of course Sherlock would know he was a gambler, at this point Sherlock practically knew everything about him, and what he didn't know, he was bound to find out.

~*~

Over the next week, John treated many, many, many men, and a few women. Most were merely curious to meet the new doctor on board, a few were scamming to see what he might offer or alternatively, what they could offer in exchange. He wasn't interested in drugs, although he quietly let it be known that human goods were another matter entirely. Yes, he could sign off on the health of everyone, with a small contribution to his bang account, or goods and other services. 

No one took the bait.

Sherlock was on a different schedule, so he and John rarely met, and when they did it was in passing in the mess. Consequently, John had no idea what it was Sherlock had discovered, if anything at all. He was on his own.

John considered himself a fairly outgoing, friendly guy. He liked women and they liked him. He got along with his fellow soldiers, more or less, and with his peers in medicine. He was battle hardened and had commendations from his superiors. He had even been seconded to the Navy! He still wasn't sure why he had been seconded to the Navy, but his was not to wonder why.

Given this long history of interaction with fellow professionals in both fields of interest, he was surprised by the lack of interaction with his cabin mates. All right, 'surprise' at first, but as the days went on, less and less so. The _Minerva_ was even more seriously unhappy than what John had suggested to Sherlock at their one and only meeting in the mess. There was a malaise in the crew, and leadership was either completely oblivious to it, or actively encouraging it, he wasn't quite sure which. 

As time passed, however, it became clear that it was a combination of both. Thievery was epidemic; everyone was scamming goods in one way or another. 

John found himself increasingly irritated, to the point where he stayed after hours in the office just to avoid anyone who might want to get to know him. It was far from ideal, but apart from Sherlock there was no one else he wanted to get to know. As the novelty of his arrival wore off, patient visits also slowed down, giving him a chance to catch up on paperwork and inventory. Both were insanely behind, and inventory of medicine was shockingly low. If action were to happen on board, he would be hard pressed to treat people who needed painkillers and other analgesics, never mind basic medications for chronic conditions. 

Thus it was one night that he was making request after request for necessary medication, when the emergency admit buzzed someone through the clinic doors. There were very few people who had the code, and most of them would have already buzzed him on his personal device first, or sent a call on the All Ship alert.

He stepped out of his office to find two people carrying another between themselves. 

"Come on, Sabine," said the man doing the majority of the carrying. "Just a few more steps."

Sabine made an effort to stand, but clearly it was beyond her as she slumped in their arms immediately thereafter. The other person was another woman, slight, and struggling to do be more than someone dabbing ineffectually at Sabine's forehead with a whitesquare.

"Over here," called John, slapping the wall and locking the exam room door 'open'. 

The man jerked to a stop, wide-eyed, before starting towards John. 

John pulled on gloves and readied the scanning machine. He rolled over the tray of instruments as Sabine was brought in. "What have we got?" 

"You're the doctor?" asked the man, warily eyeing John.

"Dr. Watson," said John shortly. Who the hell else would he be?

"This is Sabine, she's been beaten," said the woman, hovering on the other side of the table as her companion lifted Sabine up and put her on the table.

And how. Bruises were blooming on the woman's bared arms, finger marks around her neck. Her hair was matted with blood, her eyes swollen shut, her jaw hung funny.

John made a quick but thorough examination. When he was done, he started the machine scan, because although he was fairly sure he had caught everything, there were always soft tissue injuries to be concerned about.

Point of fact was that John was the only doctor aboard _Minerva_. The only doctor, and no dentist. Those two facts spoke heaps about the state of the ship, so much so that John seriously wondered how on earth she had ever left drydock. Surely the Navy wasn't that desperate? 

Of course there were a plethora of emergency technicians, good for those injured in the field, but for the finer work of surgery John was it. As such, it was he and he alone who set Sabine's jaw. She had lost several teeth, but they appeared to be clean and tidy affairs, and could wait a few weeks. She wasn't going to be chewing anything soon anyway.

He covered her with a blanket before washing his hands. With that done, he removed his apron and tossed it into the recycler before going to the waiting room.

"She'll be fine," he said to her anxious friends. Friend, the woman had disappeared.

"Lucia had to get back," said the man, getting to his feet.

"And your name?" asked John, glad to see the man had washed up in the office bathroom. 

"Kaeso, just Kaeso."

Interesting. A older name and not one to be expected outside of the Senate.

"When can she get back to work?"

"It's going to be awhile. Are you her guardian? I can't give out personal information without a legal guardian overseeing."

Kaeso put his hands on hips and huffed a bitter, incredulous laugh. 

If John wasn't used to taller and broader men than himself, he might have been intimidated.

"She doesn't have a guardian, only a broker," said Kaeso, sneering. "Whoever owns the flower house, that's her guardian."

Ah. Ship's club. John hadn't had occasion to go there yet, although he could already feel the urge to do so. Sherlock took offense, but John had needs and they were ignored if Sherlock wasn't in a thinky mood. And what that said about John, who looked forward to Sherlock being thinky, because that was one hell of a side benefit, he didn't like to ponder.

"What's the address, then," said John, sitting at the desk. He tapped the upright screen and waited expectantly for Kaeso to answer. Instead, Kaeso merely rubbed the back of his neck.

"Can't you tell me anything? I don't need specifics, just if she's going to live or not."

John was occasionally willing to bend the rules. In this case, however, a woman had been beaten and who was to stay it hadn't been by Kaeso? "And who are you to her?"

"Just a friend. I work at the flower house. Up front, in the bar."

Uh hunh. "Tell me how you came across Sabine?"

"What?" Kaeso frowned. He shook his head. "What does that have to do with anything?"

John leaned back in the chair. "Satisfy my curiosity."

Kaeso shook his head again and shrugged. "All right. I work in the bar, but we have a common room we all go to when we're on our break. Well, the ladies have their own lounge, but often the come out for the company, y'know?"

"Sabine and I like to talk about movies, we both like _A Play: Today_ and I was really looking forward to talking about _A Depth of Ice_ because I'd finally caught up with last week's episode. I was waiting for her and waiting for her, and then Helen comes rushing out of the lady's lounge and says Sabine's been beat up. I went in - yeah, I know I'm not supposed to, but come on - I go in to the room she's been assigned and she's a mess, a real mess. The client's gone but that doesn't matter, we know who he is," Kaeso finished darkly, which kind of warmed him in John's eyes. Just because a woman worked for a living, that didn't mean she wasn't equally worthy of respect.

"And the client? Should I expect him in here soon?" asked John mildly.

Kaeso snorted. "Nothing will happen to him that he won't recover from."

Fair enough. "So that's the story."

"Such as it is, yeah."

John blew out a noisy breath. "All right, I'll write up what you've told me. Sans the last bit. And for what it's worth, she'll be fine."

"How soon until she comes back?"

Now that, that Kaeso didn't need to know until John had done some further research to see if the story was really true. Always had to check when it came to the women in Ship's clubs. It was the same old argument; women didn't belong on board ship - unless it was in a flower club, because men needed the sexual release, obviously. It was a bullshit argument as far as John was concerned. There were heaps of women in the Merchant Navy. 

During times of 'peace', Recovery was a small, eight bed unit, four beds per room with sliding panels to create a private two bed facility. Recovery was adjacent to John's office, and from time to time he took the opportunity to stretch his legs and check on his patients. 

"How we doin' today,Doc?" asked Sammy Trevor with a smile, his leg in plaster up to his hip. A simple, old-fashioned fix, but John liked to save the higher-tech items for more perilous times.

John checked the chart out of habit, not that he expected to see anything different from the last time he had looked. "You're healing well. Keep up the good work."

Trevor gave him a thumbs up and put on the headphones he'd put around his neck. John left him to whatever he was listening to and headed to the next room.

Sabine was awake. Exhausted, and looking terrible, a puffy, human-shaped bruise. The brightest thing about her was her hair, which was a coppery shade of red. 

John smiled a bit, glad to see her awake, if not cheerful. He checked her chart again as well, because it was a habit no doctor could break. "You're coming along fine," he finally said, hooking the rolling stool with one foot. He sat down and took her pulse. "Do you have any questions for me?"

She stared at him, the whites of her eyes bloodshot. 

"No? That's okay, you've been through a traumatic event. Don't worry about going back to work, you'll be here and then rehab for some time. In addition, I'm going to recommend you transfer to another job, I'm sure you have qualifications for something else."

He said it with all the confidence he could muster, given the likelihood there were no qualifications whatsoever. Women who worked in Ship's Clubs didn't come to them because there were better paying jobs. "The food's not great, but I have it on good authority that once your jaw has healed, tooth implants will be quick and easy. Surprisingly enough, your jaw was merely dislocated with a tiny fracture, rather than the break I suspected you had. Anyway, you're doing well. I'll come chat with you tomorrow."

~*~

As it turned out, she was sleeping every time he popped by to see her, so it took some time to catch her when she was awake. She was sitting up, slowly eating stew from a bowl. Smelled like beef, which was good. Meant she was not only hungry enough to eat, but also that her teeth were good enough to chew. "How are we doing today?"

She ignored him, holding the spoon to her mouth.

John sat on the stool, not too close, not too far away. "I'm still waiting for you to answer."

"I'm fine," she said with great resignation. She looked at her food, then placed the bowl on the tray. "What do you want?"

He spread his hands wide. Gods she was touchy. And given he dealt with Sherlock, that was saying something. "I'm your doctor, no more, no less."

"Where's Dr. Milagros?"

"Gone. Transferred to _Magnificent_. I can pass on his details if want - "

She shook her head, lips pursed. "No. No, I don't...what's your name?"

"Watson, Dr. John Watson. I've been here for oh, a little over a week."

"Never heard of you."

John stood up and rolled the stool back to its place. Sabine was most definitely on the mend. "Hopefully this will be our only interaction. I don't like seeing patients too often after the first time."

"I want to see my friends," Sabine said.

"Visiting hours are posted everywhere, nothing's stopping them."

She didn't reply. 

"I'll leave you to your meal," said John, feeling like a fool. He needed to make more of an effort not to spread his questionable moods onto his patients. He scurried back to the office, pondered going back to paperwork and ultimately deciding to check the equipment instead. One always had to make sure everything was in its place, sterilized and labeled, especially on this ship. Besides, it all made a pleasant clink when he shuffled them about in the drawers.

"Hallo, Dr. Watson."

Startled, John gripped the scalpel too tightly. It sliced through the paper covering and nicked his thumb. "Ow, damn - "

"Language!" 

"My own fault," said John, turning to face the speaker. He'd hoped he was wrong, but his visitor was indeed Chaplain Moriarty. He ripped open a sterilized pad and pressed it to the cut, minor though it was. "I always tell the nurses never to hold scalpels any other way than by the handle, and here I've made the perfect example why."

"We all have our moments," said the Chaplain, eyes wide, eyebrows raised, as if that would somehow fool John.

John smiled slightly and sat down at his desk, brought up the computer screen because he was busy, very busy. "What can I help you with today?"

Moriarty straightened jovially, motioned towards Recovery. "I came to see your patient! At times like these, I find those who haven't necessarily taken advantage of spiritual advice before are more open to hearing it."

 _Proselytizing?_ In _his_ sickbay? He didn't think so. "I'm afraid I haven't received notification that anyone had requested your presence."

"Oh no, I believe you'll find there's a request from Mr. Trevor?"

There it was on his computer screen, the request flagged in red in his mail. "Ah, I do beg your pardon. Please," he said, tapping the Recovery room admit with one hand and motioning towards the door with the other. "Go in. No more than thirty minutes, however."

"Thank you," replied Moriarty with a tip of his head. He sauntered in and as he passed from view, John locked the door on open. 

What was it about Moriarty? As if on cue, more mail appeared on screen. An invitation to a medical symposium on Bree's World, his application for a loan from 'The Senatorial Bank' had been approved, ha ha, a hot lady from Earth wanted to get to know him better, and finally, a message from Harriet. it was almost time for lunch, which meant there was a chance he might catch a glimpse of Sherlock. Not only that, the specials for the day were jokbal, turkey pot pie, and Chicken Vindaloo in addition to the regular selection of soups, salads, and sandwiches. Absolutely spoiled for choice, and since lunch would make him feel better, he opened Harriet's letter first.

He couldn't even call it the usual from her, since it contained even less information than her normal 'hello how are you I'm busy goodbye'. Nothing about where she was or what she was doing, although apparently Clara was taking a semi-permanent vacation in London, on Earth. He shook his head at that; Clara was a goddamned saint in his opinion, and if she had left _Dere Street_ , that meant Harriet was on one hell of a tear.

He didn't know what the hell to say to Harriet. He'd seen her through her other relationships, and surely there was a point where she _had_ to see that she was the biggest problem in her relationships,right? Ultimately he replied with a quick 'Busy with work, what's your schedule?' and left it at that. Immediately after he shot another message to Clara telling her she'd done the right thing, and that breaks were good, and that he supported her no matter what.

The Bree's World thing, eh, who knew when he was going to have time for that. He deleted the Senatorial Bank immediately; he wasn't born yesterday. And as for the 'Hot Lady', he couldn't resist.

 _Given you've ignored all my other messages, I knew you would open this one -_

What? Oh, that little - 

_Meet me in the Mess at seven bells ~ SH_

John rapidly cycled through the mail and no, no there were no other mails. That lumping idiot! Him and his so-called technological prowess! Couldn't open a can with an old-fashioned can-opener, put a tire on an antique vehicle, load a AH91F is less than five seconds or fire an - oh. Oh wait.

Dammit, there were a series of messages John swore he had never seen before. The return address was funny, that's why. Trust Sherlock to over complicate a simple thing. Seven bells wasn't thirty minutes away, which meant visiting hours were almost over. Which reminded him there was an actual visitor.

Even as he thought of Moriarty, a burst of laughter came through the open door. John hesitated for a moment, then decided to see what they were talking about. Just in case.

"Good evening, Dr. Watson," said the Chaplain, passing through the open door just as John was getting to his feet. 

"Good evening," echoed John. Moriarty gave him a quick nod and was out of the office before John could say another word. It wasn't anything Moriarty that had John on edge apart from the speed with which he left. 

Hunh.

Trevor was watching a popular drama on the wall screen, but seemed happy enough, so John continued through the next room to the private rooms to check on Sabine. As soon as he saw her face, he knew something was wrong.

She was sitting up, but holding the blanket up to her chest. She was hunched in on herself and looked at him warily, her eyes wide.

"Are you all right?" he asked, reaching for her chart. She was healing well, there wasn't anything to check apart from machine readings. Heartbeat elevated, blood pressure elevated, rapid breathing. 

Sabine's gaze flicked towards the open door and back to him. "Are you gods-fearing, Dr. Watson?"

"No more than some, probably less than many others, why?"

"I need to know."

"I highly doubt I'd ever go to the Chaplain's services, if that's what you're asking." 

She seemed to relax a little. "You weren't brought up religious?"

He smiled a little. "My father tried, but mum wasn't particularly interested. Are you one for the gods?"

"No, of course not."

But she looked away when she said it.

"Can I have your word? As a doctor?"

"Of course," he said softly, side-eyeing the open door. Either the show Trevor was watching was over, or he'd turned the volume very low. Once again, John felt like a fool. Although there was no official rule about men and women sharing the same Recovery room on board a ship, many doctors including himself kept separate quarters whenever possible. Personally, he didn't like it because he didn't like there being any chance of a vulnerable person being...he didn't know the word. He just didn't like anyone having the opportunity to take advantage of a vulnerable person, and Sabine, by the very nature of her work, was prime material. "If there's anything I can help you with, please let me know."

Sabine swallowed, the muscles of her throat working hard. She frowned, and John didn't know if he should prompt her for more or just wait, as she seemed to be on a knife's edge of decision.

He hadn't thought much about the Chaplain ministering to the sick, even though he didn't like Moriarty. 

Sabine finally looked up at him through her eyelashes, but she wasn't trying to be sexy, or flirtatious, rather the exact opposite. "It's my life if you say anything."

John walked around the bed so he could see the door into the next recovery room clearly. "I take the Hippocratic Oath very seriously. Unless it causes harm to yourself, my lips are sealed."

"I don't know what the Hip-po-cratic oath is, but that's not important now."

"What do you want to tell me, Sabine?"

"You know where I work, you know I hear things. Things I'm not supposed to. We just pretend we don't, we know nothing. We don't even discuss it amongst ourselves, not really. I mean, not the big things, but the little things, sure."

"Big things?" asked John, eyebrows raised. She rolled her eyes, and he was glad she caught that he was making a joke. "Go on."

"Not all of us are slaves. Not all of us chose this job out of desperation - "

John must have made some sign of disbelief, because she shook her head.

"No, it's true! I'm working off family debt, so I knew what I was in for, some of the others don't, or didn't until. You know slaves can come from anywhere, right?"

He nodded. Disgusting trade.

"No silver spoons in my family," he quipped.

She shrugged her good shoulder. "Can never tell these days. People were taken from Moon Over Harnor. Kids. They've been smuggled aboard and they're being sold off piecemeal at every world and station we come to. Every single one," she whispered.

"And you know this how?"

"He thought I was asleep. Big Man wore the woman out," she muttered with a bitter smile. "Said he could fetch a good price because most of 'em were underage. Thirteen, twelve, eleven. Some younger. Not many older."

His hand hurt - John looked down to find he was gripping the rails of the bed so tightly his knuckles were white, and his bandage was spotted with red where the slice on his thumb had reopened. She was right: if he told anyone other than Sherlock, she was a dead woman.  
"Why are you telling me this now?"

"I had to make sure."

And then -

"The Chaplain came in - "

"I _knew_ it!" he jerked his fists, but managed to keep his voice to a whispered shout. "What did he say?"

Sabine's entire face twitched, and when she spoke again she kept her eyes solidly on the recovery room door. "Nothing, and everything. He knows, doctor. He knows and what's more, he's part of it. I don't know the details, but he's part of it."

"Did you hear other details? no matter how small, it could be important."

She shook her head.

John nodded. "Have you told this to anyone else?"

"No, no."

"Good," he said. "Continue knowing nothing, d'y'hear me?" 

She finally looked up at him, eyebrows quirked in fear. 

"It's alright. You're not the first person to bring this to my attention. We know they're here, somewhere. We're they're going to be sold - "

"Pealbright," said Sabine. "That's our next stop."

"Very well done. I'm not sure I can remember how to tie my shoes, never mind what station we're coming to next."

"That's because you don't need to know where the roughest clients are."

"Well, I'm not sure I'd go that far. Your clients, my patients."

Sabine conceded the point with a nod.

"All right. I want you to forget we ever had this conversation. If you need chemical help, I can provide you with something, okay? Nothing illegal where I can't immediately help you, right?"

"Yes, doctor."

They stared at one another for a moment longer, then John nodded once more. "I'm going to keep you locked in," he said in a low voice. "I don't want you haven't any more visitors, okay?"

"Thank you," she replied, her soft voice cracking half-way through 'thank', and adding an edge of vulnerability that was entirely genuine.

John continued on in a normal tone of voice. "Rice, apples,cheese, yes, and some sort of...something? That kind of snack?"

Sabine stared at him, then shut her mouth. "Um, yeah."

"I'm busy, but not so busy I can't get a pretty lady a cup of fruit outside working hours," John patted Sabine on the shoulder.

"Remember, you don't know anything," John repeated. Satisfied with her nod, he left the room with some haste, not only trying to catch Trevor in the act of eavesdropping, but he also needed to change before he met Sherlock. On _Venom_ it had become clear that there was something in the scent of Sickbay that gave Sherlock genuine migraines, not his fake ones when he was in a strop. 

Trevor appeared to be asleep, canted to one side in the bed, hand resting on the remote. His breathing was slow and steady, although he could have easily been faking and John didn't have time to find out. Sabine was locked in, nothing short of a shipwide emergency was going to unlock the door until John was either notified by the duty nurse or did it himself.

The current schedule meant that John had a few minutes to himself in his shared cabin. He quickly changed to off duty greens, made sure he looked presentable overall. Staring at his hair in the mirror, he decided - again - that he wouldn't get it cut so closely next time. One could take Military standard too far and he wasn't a recruit any more, he could choose a longer length and just get it trimmed more frequently. Besides, the way things were going, it would be good to take care of what hair he had left.

Ship's bell sounded on the half and that was it, he had to get out before any of his cabin mates came in. Just as he was leaving, the admit chimed. Seeing as he was already at the door, he hit the admit button and found himself face to chest with Sherlock. "What are you doing here?"

Sherlock was very bright eyed, enough so that John wondered what he had taken. 

"Shut up," Sherlock said succinctly. He grabbed John's upper arm, his grip very tight. "Don't ask any questions."

"Alright," said John, brows furrowed. Sherlock was being very intense, more so than usual, as if he could force John to do what he asked by mental will alone. "Let's go."

Sherlock stepped out of John's way, and that's when he saw there was a child - no, two - standing behind Sherlock.

 _Minerva_ was a warship. There shouldn't be any children aboard warships. Not for any legitimate reason.

"John. We don't have time for this."

He hadn't said anything, but once again, Sherlock was right, they didn't have time.

The glimpse of filth coverd gaunt faces, the large dark eyes, the rat's nest hair was more than enough to convince John there was only one place for the children to be. 

"Come on," he said, going left towards the lifts that for some reason were used less at shift change. If they hurried, there was a slim chance they could make it without anyone noticing. If Fortuna was on their side, Childe, the duty nurse, would be either late, or running one of his 'errands' that John had been suspicious of for some time. What the hell was he going to do, though?

"I hope you have a plan," he muttered at Sherlock as they waited for the lift. 

"I always have a plan."

"Yes, but are you going to share it with me this time?"

The lift doors opened; it was empty. Sherlock practically pushed the children inside while John waited on the other side, ready to close the doors. 

Down one deck.

Down two decks.

Down the third deck and off.

There was little point in trying to hide the children, so John prepared to front it if anyone asked. What few crew members passed their little quartet only gave John the side-eye as they went by. No one said a damned thing, not even Chief Petty Officer Shaw, which was the final nail in the coffin as far as John was concerned. Higher ranks weren't even a bit curious?

 _Minerva_ and all aboard her could go straight to hell. 

Childe wasn't in sickbay, nor was there a note left on the duty desk. John shook his head as they passed from waiting room to office to examination room. 

"Up we go," he said to the children, motioning towards the table. He grabbed his stethoscope and briefly rubbed it between his hands, then began his examination.

The girl was thin, they both were, yet that was clearly from circumstance rather than habit. Heartbeat fast and steady. The boy, younger than the girl, was the same. 

"I've arranged transport," said Sherlock. "we just have to wait for it to arrive."

"And how long will that be?"

"A few hours."

"Hours?!" John shook his head and took off his neon orange gloves. "I'm surprised you think we'll last that long."

"And why shouldn't we?" asked Sherlock, his voice a little muffled.

John glanced over his should to find Sherlock bent over his desk, fiddling with the keyboard. Typing on it, actually, although it didn't appear to be in Standard. Besides, Sherlock had a point.

If there was time, there was time, and that meant a meal and a shower, not in that order. With that in mind, he ordered several meals and snacks, rummaged through the closet for the smallest pj's he could find, then shuffled both children through the recovery rooms to Sabine's room. Trevor watched them troop through with wide eyes, and when he reached for his pad, John pointed at him and slowly shook his head. Maybe his expression was stern, for Trevor put the pad down on the bedside table, then pushed the table far enough away that he wouldn't be able to reach it. Seeing as his leg was in traction, it was an impossibility.

Sabine too, was awake and wide-eyed when John entered the room. 

"They just need to stay here until I can come get them, okay?" said John, aiming the children towards the bathroom. He showed how the shower worked and warned them they had ten minutes each to wash up. Change of clothes on the toilet, plus towels, and when they were done their meals would be with Sabine.

"Who are they?" asked Sabine as soon as the bathroom door closed behind John.

"I don't even know," said John, surprised at his own ignorance. "Didn't think to ask. You'll have to keep them quiet, can you do that?"

"Yeah, sure. We can watch _Waybuloo_ or something. That's okay for kids their age, right?"

John shook his head. Why did everyone assume he was familiar with children? He wasn't married and he wasn't a pediatrician! "Whatever keeps them quiet is good enough for me."

As Sherlock promised, the hours passed, and they passed quickly. 

Childe didn't return, and John didn't bother to contact him about it. He requested a transfer for Childe, because there was no way John wanted him in Medical again. Didn't mean the next person wasn't going to be equally shifty, but at least John could lay down the law and go from there. That was the problem with coming into an established sickbay as it was almost impossible to root out the evil. 

John gave meals to everyone who was awake, making sure to dose Trevor's stew with a mild sedative first. It was tasteless and odorless and wouldn't do anything to Trevor apart from make him sleep deeply, enough for John to get the kids out to wherever Sherlock wanted them to go.

The kids themselves had taken to Sabine, who seemed a little overwhelmed. All three were quiet, watching some comedy on the screen. No one was laughing, which was a little worrisome, but Sabine winked at him, so he took her at her word.

Sherlock remained busy at John's desk. Eventually John grew tired and hopped up on the exam table to take a rest. He was asleep within minutes.

"John, it's time."

Blinking rapidly, John sat up before he quite realized he was awake. "Whazzappening?"

Sherlock put his hand on John's shoulder and squeezed. "Our transport has arrived. We've got to go before shift change for morning watch."

"Mm. Lemme use the head first," murmured John, already sliding off the exam table. After using the toilet and scrubbing his face with a washcloth, he slapped on some moisturizer and collected the children.

"Be careful!" called Sabine as they left her room. John glanced over his shoulder and nodded, at the same time wondering if she meant him or the children. Probably the children.

Middle watch was the quietest time aboard any ship, which John was grateful for as they walked down corridor after corridor, taking the lift down into _Minerva_ 's bowels. Sherlock was in the lead, and even though he had slowed his usual walk to a slower pace for the sake of the children, John was still hard pressed not to run. An increasing sense of wrongness had shivers going up the back of the spine, until all he knew was that he wanted off the ship by any means possible. 

He'd had the same feeling on the _Sharpe_ , just before they'd hurtled down to join the action on Sphynx. Hopefully this would turn out a lot better. He didn't fancy spending weeks in hospital again.

"Almost there," Sherlock said under his breath.

"How are we getting off ship?" asked John, because really, Sherlock should have shared instead of just saying _"I've found a way!"_ and leaving it at that.

"We're here!" Sherlock exclaimed triumphantly, if quietly.

'Here' was _Minerva_ 's bay, which was large enough to hold two cutters and two shuttles, plus assorted smaller vehicles for hull maintenance. Sherlock keyed a code into the admit, but nothing happened. When he tried again with the same result, John stepped forward to enter in his personal code, which would open any door. After all, a doctor needed to be able to get to his patient no matter what, right?

"Well, well, well, look who's here - "

John knew the voice. He knew the voice and flushed with unreasonable rage. 

"Keep going," whispered Sherlock. He turned, moving the children behind himself in the process. "Moriarty."

"Sherlock," drawled the Chaplain. "I didn't expect to see you here."

"Nor I, you," replied Sherlock.

It was no good, someone had locked John out, and there were only two people who had that power: Captain Alexander and Commander Moran. Very quietly, John said, "I can't get in."

"Quite the surprise, meeting in the Mess that day."

"Indeed," said Sherlock. "I'm afraid we have a prior appointment, however, so if you'll excuse us - "

Moriarty laughed, an ugly sound that had made John face him too. Moriarty was dressed in his duty robe, Navy blue with red piping along the collar, the sunburst pin bright and shining. His eyes burned with a peculiar zeal that John recognized from his time in the Army; a lust for battle that ofttimes was brought home and released upon the unsuspecting. John had seen the result of it borne by women and children far too many times.

Unfortunately Moriarty wasn't alone. There were five bruisers behind him, none of whom John recognized by name, although certainly by type. Hard men, he couldn't expect any quarter from them. Not only that, the children would bear the brunt of the exercise should he and Sherlock lose this fight, and there was going to be a fight, no question.

Moriarty grinned, all his teeth showing, and motioned towards Sherlock and John. "Boys, do your thing. I want those children!"

It was a bum rush from the start. John barely had time to shove the children between himself and door before the men were on him. He heard a high laugh and then he was socked in the ribs once, twice before giving it right back. 

Cold clarity came upon his, where everything happened quickly and slowly at the same time; the predatory, brown-eyed gaze of the man in front of him, the pain as someone deliberately stepped on his toes, the snap of a nose breaking under his knuckles, the spray of blood over his undress-greens and the glint of a knife blade. Strangest was the silence, the panting and grunting of men in a physical scuffle. He was used to the screaming of the wounded, orders being shouted, the odd bass pulse of heavy energy weapons as they were fired and the vibration as they hit their targets. 

And then, the double buzz-ping of the admit. Distracted, John failed to duck and consequently was sent to the floor from a one-two punch. Dazed, all he could do was watch blearily as Sherlock continued his one man campaign of fists and kicks. Speaking of which, here was a foot stomping down on him, too, and a kick that connected at the join of hip and thigh. Pain arced through his side and despite curling up, he failed to catch the next kick too, though he was able to block much of its power with his hands. He didn't need a busted spleen or liver or anything else.

John had forgotten the admit until the door swooshed open and someone stepped through.

"That's enough!"

There was a brief pause and then everything continued on. 

"I said ENOUGH!"

John's ears popped and everyone dropped to the floor. Fuck, who the hell had brought a high velocity weapon onto the ship?! Jaw and hip aching, he managed to roll over enough to look at the entrance to the bay. "The hell?"

Sherlock, who of course was still mostly upright, lurched towards the door, one limp child under each arm. "Our ride's here, John, come on!"

"John? Get the _Fuck! Up!_ " Harriet looked towards one of the men on the floor with a fierce gaze. She waggled the gun and shook her head. "Don't even think it, mister!" 

He had made it back to Base on Sphynx after being shot, he could sure as hell make it on to _Dere Street_ after being kicked. Staggering past Harriet, he followed the direction of her crew member, who was pointing towards a nearby shuttle. Another member of her crew had relieved Sherlock of one child and as John limped as fast as he could, the pressure in his ears increased until they popped again. Holy shit were they in trouble.

Lights began to flash red and a gentle rumble under his feet told him all he needed to know: the bay doors were opening for their imminent departure. He took a look back once he stepped on the ramp and was gratified to see Harriet had almost caught up.

 _Dere Street_ 's shuttle wasn't big, a mere six-seater, now filled to capacity. John flung himself into the next nearest chair and fumbled for the belts as Harriet raced past him towards the comm.

"Buckle up!" yelled the pilot, lifting off before Harriet had even taken her seat. 

The punch through the shield was disorienting, or maybe that was John's body finally telling him it had had enough, thank you very much. Either way, he felt very small in the universe.

Harriet was shouting at someone and the remaining crew member, a tiny woman with a cap of dark hair, had wrapped herself in one set of the wall belts, she would be safe-ish if _Minerva_ didn't fire on them. At this point John had so little faith in _Minerva_ 's management it wouldn't surprise him at all if they were destroyed. Hopefully it would be quick and painless.

Everyone, even Sherlock and the children, seemed to be holding up well, and that's when John's body decided it would like to take a nap.

~*~

When John next opened his eyes, he was lying in a bed - he was in a white Recovery semi-private room. He was in Recovery and he didn't have to pee and yes, a catheter had been inserted. He was on a drip and he was hungry.

"Good, you're awake."

Of course Sherlock was there, looking very pleased with himself. Looking like the Lord of his domain in the standard sickbay visitors chair, legs crossed, hands folded on his lap, dressed in his duty blacks. "You've missed everything."

"I really don't think I have," said John, thumbing the bed controls so he could look Sherlock in the eye. "I had surgery?"

"You did. Damage to your hip, none to your stomach, however. And a broken finger."

"Ah, that explains the plaster cast," John held up his hand, eyed the it with a professional gaze. As good a job as any he would have done. Never knew what kind of medical merchanters had until you were in the shit. "How are the children? _Who_ are the children? Don't think I didn't notice just how much you never told me."

"We were tasked to retrieve them - "

"You _can tell me_ these things, Sherlock! You don't have to keep me in the dark!" burst John. "You shouldn't keep me in the dark, it's my job to protect you!"

Sherlock blinked and started to sputter, but John wasn't having it. "I can help you do your job better if you help me do mine!"

"Yes...that makes sense."

John waited. "And?"

"And what?"

"The children?"

"Ah, yes. Godchildren once removed. My brother's friend is, well, he's in Government. Which is also why we're not dead."

"I'd wondered. And my sister?"

"Your sister?"

Sherlock looked at him blankly, but John wasn't fooled. "Yes, my sister, Captain Harriet Watson?"

"Your _sister!_ Of course!"

"You...didn't know? Seriously?"

Sherlock waved a hand at him dismissively. " _Dere Street_ was merely the ship closest to _Minerva_ , no more, no less."

Hmm. Maybe. Sherlock was curiously obtuse about some things. "Well, I'm glad we got the children away from those slavers."

"Yes," said Sherlock, growing serious again. "Moriarty's disappeared along with Commander Moran. Don't think we won't meet them again, we will. He's my greatest enemy, John, save one. I must defeat him at all costs."

"All the more reason to tell me what's going on," he answered. "And feed me, I'm starving."

"Dinner's coming." Harriet stood in the doorway, arms folded, scowling. She looked at John, he looked back at her. "I'll be back later."

And was gone before John had a chance to do more than open his mouth to say 'hello'.

"The resemblance is obvious now that I know she's your sister."

John thumbed the controls of the bed again. "I'm tired."

"Yes, you'll need your rest. We have two days before we return to London - "

John sat straight up, regretted it immediately. "London!"

"We're to testify in court," said Sherlock, easing John back to lying flat. "You're going to meet the most dangerous man on Earth, my brother."

"Oh," said John, sucking in breath after breath until stitch in his hip eased. "Can't wait."

"You say that now..."

John closed his eyes and pulling the sheet higher. "He did save our lives, according to you."

"I suppose that's something - "

"Hmm."

"Good night, John."

Wait, wasn't he supposed to eat dinner? He was still hungry...eh, food would wait...

**Author's Note:**

> Minerva is the Roman version of Athena (I know, I know, but bear with me), but I couldn't find any quotes that I liked, so Athena it is.  
> Cam_elot, I hope this is what you were looking for!
> 
> In this far future 'verse where Rome never fell, I feel like they would still be in a constant state of war - somewhere. I thought there might be more NC17 in this story, but alas, no. Maybe in the next story!


End file.
